Congeries
by mistywabbit
Summary: Collection of drabbles and ficlets. No.8: Set Adrift
1. Competition

**Because I have so many of them, I'm not entirely sure what to do with them, so here is where my collection of drabbles and ficlets will come to rest. All reviews are welcomed and highly appreciated!**

**All characters mentioned herein, and the world they live in, are the creation of Tamora Pierce.**

**_Competition_ doesn't have any particular time scale - it fits in roughly between EM and RotG - before Midwinter anyway.**

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Competition**

It's strange to think that when the pair of them tire themselves out so much in battle, they treat the length of time they are asleep for as a competition. Whosoever sleeps the longest wins; but in all the years of this silent game, he is not sure what it is they compete for.

Whoever sleeps the longest can stay up for longer the next day, does not need to go to sleep again quite so quickly; but it is also a sign that more of their magic was used up, a sign of how much closer they were to death.

Numair thinks all this as he watches his student sleep. She has bested him by more than eighteen hours now, and for sixteen of those he has been sitting by her bedside, waiting for her to wake; soon he will have to give in to his own desire to sleep. The noises of the Rider Barracks continue about them as life moves on, but in here, all is silent. Nobody else seems as concerned as he; Baird, as chief of the Palace healers, has come by only once; Thayet stopped for an hour by her bedside, and was joined by Onua, who, in all honesty, seemed more concerned with making sure Numair was eating than with the welfare of her young assistant. He knows, in his head, this isn't entirely true, and that most likely they are all as concerned as he, but have other tasks to attend to, or feel Daine is safe as long as Numair is watching her.

But he wonders. He wonders if his friends would all be so complacent if they had been there to see what happened. If they had seen her in battle, claws slicing, eyes flashing after her arrows had all been neatly dispensed.

Numair realises he is waiting to see a glimpse of his student again, to see whether she will return to humanity. He doesn't like the feral beast she becomes in battle, even when that beast is standing between him and a group of sneering spidrens, with hurroks wheeling above. Her wild magic may be an extraordinary gift, and he knows how privileged he is to have found her (in both professional and personal terms), instead of some northern hedgewitch who didn't understand the extent of her powers, or a zealous priest who burned her at the stake. It's just that, sometimes, he wishes her wild magic wasn't quite so ferocious when threatened. The trait goes hand in hand with the magic, of course, but it doesn't mean he has to like it.

If they had seen the way she had collapsed to the ground after their battle, the way he had had to coax her into talking whilst they waited for Numair's distress call to be answered. If they had seen the way he had sat beside her, clutching her in his arms as he tried to roughly bandage her wounded arm, leg, fighting his own exhaustion in order to make sure she was safe.

Would they be sitting there with his magelet too?


	2. Problem

**Timescale: after TQ**

**Once again, all reviews are more than appreciated!**

**Problem**

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There was a problem, with your daughter becoming the Spymaster for another Kingdom, George decided. Bigger even than facing the many leagues of ocean between him and his – in his opinion, anyway – little girl. More important than his sudden new loneliness at the Swoop, with Thom at the university, Alan squiring Raoul around the country, and his Lioness away so much. And it had everything to do with the fact she knew exactly who his agents were, and exactly how to translate his codes.

Of course, there had been some new ones introduced in the duration of the Scanran war, whilst Aly was away, but there was plenty she knew, and plenty she had even taught to his Whisperers. Aly could identify a Tortallan agent at forty paces, knew their cover stories and could probably see right through their disguises. And it was his own fault for teaching her to do so.

There was some consolation to all this, he thought, whilst trying to devise the latest of his replacement ciphers. He knew all her codes too.


	3. By Rights

**By Rights**

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I did not want to be the one sitting through this. Selfishly, I'd always thought I would escape this aspect of our relationship. The single advantage of being far older than the rest of my family. Daine has always been stronger than me, in her own way, when it comes to these things. 

And instead, it is me sitting here, holding her hand as she drifts in and out of consciousness. It's not old age that's put her here; not some battle-incurred injury or childbirth. It is before her time, yet for Daine it has been time enough.

I don't like to cry in front of her, never have, and it is worse that I do so before the children. Sarralyn is staring stoically at her mother's face, so like Daine in her own way; Rikash is pacing at the end of the bed, as helpless as I feel, and without even a hand to hold. Kitten disappeared under the bed some time ago, the darkest grey I have ever seen her; occasionally sullen noises can be heard from the dragon who is about to lose her human mother.

The aging Lioness sits in the corner, head in her hands, having lost her final battle. For weeks, months even, she has been frittering her magic over Daine, reluctant to allow any other healer the responsibility of caring for the realm's first Wildmage. After tonight, Alanna estimates, Tortall will have only one.

Outside, I know the Priests of the Black God are waiting. Sarralyn banished them at some point in the afternoon, sick of their morose chanting. Her mother, she believes, we believe, will be well taken care of in the afterlife; she has served her monarchs, her country, her Gods well.

And still I do not want to let her go. Daine has been in pain for months, but has been holding on, her last stubborn defiance, to life. She wanted - wants - to see her first grandchild born. And yet, our daughter-in-law's belly still swells, and Daine only weakens. The babe is as stubborn as their grandmother, obviously.

By rights, by virtue of age, of sheer life-threatening ventures, of general acts of stupidity that were far more dangerous than they ought to have been, it should be me, lying in this bed, having my hand held. I'm not even sure she knows we're here anymore. She hasn't seemed to have registered anyone's presence since morning. It should be Daine, strong-willed, running her hands through my greying hair. It should be Daine thinking thoughts of survival without the other, because she has lost loved ones before, and come through a better person for it. Out of both of us, Daine is the most likely to survive this situation. By rights.


	4. A Sealed Fate?

**Damn my procrastinating mind. Just damn it.**

**As always, recognisable characters and settings belong to Tamora Pierce.**

**Set sometime after ItHotG.**

**A Sealed Fate?**

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Arram has read and examined many of the works of Duke Roger of Conté, and admires the mage greatly. He can never understand Lindhall's strong dislike of the man, having never met him himself; that is, until news of the Duke's treachery, foiled by a mere girl, filters through to the Imperial University.

For a man who is heir to the Carthaki throne, Ozorne seems remarkably undaunted by the news.

"Perhaps the Contés are too soft," he ponders aloud one night.

Arram, who has been playing carelessly with a candle, seeing how low he can make the flame without spraying wax across the room, looks up.

"'Too soft'?"

"Well, if their own _nephew_ can find reason to take over the throne," Ozorne scoffs, "and damn near does it, what does _that_ say about the strength of their rule? Not only that, but a _female_ has to be the one to uncover it. They don't even know what's happening in their own court! _And_ they let her keep her knighthood. The Tortallans have no honour."

Arram ignores the last comment. He prods the candle with his finger, making the flame flare. "Perhaps he used magic to disguise his intent. It can be done, you know. Easily."

Ozorne raises an eyebrow. "'Easily', is it? What would you know about it?"

Arram, aware that he may be treading on dangerous ground by discussing how easy it is to conceal treason through use of the Gift with the future Emperor, hesitates. "I'm only saying," he tells Ozorne slowly, "that it is possible to hide such things with the Gift. It's almost basic image magic."

"You seem to know a lot about it." He does not have to listen carefully to hear the dangerous tone.

"From my reading only. Cheerik of Siraj mentions it several times, Saidi of Ekallatum in his journals, Seaver of –"

Ozorne waves a hand dismissively, breaking his flow. "Yes, yes, plenty of examples. Roger always seemed a smart man at Court though. My father offered him a lot to stay, but –" Ozorne breaks off, shaking his head. "He was obviously already sending his spells. He would have done well had he stayed with us – the university is _far_ better than anything they could've given him, and we had so much more to offer him. I can't understand why he left, myself."

Arram studies his friend closely, not quite sure whether he understands him. "Perhaps he thought home had more for him."

Ozorne laughs scathingly. "Nonsense. Although, perhaps as an act of remittance to us for sheltering him for so long, he could have allied himself with us. He owed us a debt. Maybe we could have overthrown Tortall together. It's about time Carthak got her claws into the Eastern Lands."

It is then Arram begins to wonder whether his fate has already been sealed.


	5. Concessions

**Because small, undersized puppies can grow into big, oversized dogs. Because animals can give people something to fight for.**

**Tahoi and Onua belong to Tamora Pierce.**

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Concessions**"Tahoi?" the man repeats, laughing. "Ox?" He eyes the puppy. "He's no more an ox than I am a suckling piglet." 

True, Onua has picked the runt of the litter, the smallest, weakest puppy of them all. But there was something in this one that she, at least, could relate to, the one struggling at the back, fighting against his brothers and sisters to get to their mother's milk. And fair enough, he was resoundingly beaten down by his siblings, but maybe that was what she recognised in him. It was when the small runt had looked up at her with big, black watery eyes that she had fallen for him though.

He's barely able to walk in a straight line, and he is yet to grow into the large paws which are easily the same size as Onua's palms, but already she knows good will come from this dog. Tahoi is the first concession her husband has made to her in years; perhaps that was because they were in public when she made her request and his sister was watching them closely, and perhaps she will pay for it soundly later, but she still hopes. If she can save him, perhaps one day someone will save her. Perhaps she'll gain the strength to save herself. He will give her something to cling on to, a reason to keep fighting when all others have been lost.

"You," she whispers confidentially to the dog, feeling like an utter fool as she does so, "you will be my strength."

After all, the strength of an ox _must_ be greater than her husband.


	6. Moral Comeuppance

**Moral Comeuppance**

It was very hard, Alanna had discovered, to teach children morals. Especially the quality of honesty.

She knew that perhaps her difficulties differed from other parents, because when she warned Thom not to lie, he reminded her that she had spent eight years of her life doing so.

He had a point.

Telling Aly or Alan was equally as pointless. Their father had been a thief, they told her. They were taught to lie, hide, search and steal for their own protection. They were only _practicing_, as Aly often reminded her with a raised eyebrow that reminded Alanna so much of her brother that she was often left speechless.

What made it worse was that the children seemed to behave for everyone _but_ her and George. They trailed Daine like ducklings, sat quietly for Numair as he told them tales and behaved perfectly – well, as well as she could expect – when in the Palace. Even _Buri_ could make them behave.

Of course, it didn't help that someone, Alanna strongly suspected either Numair or her father, of teaching them the meaning of the word 'hypocrisy'. The word now haunted her every time she tried to enforce some form of discipline. Whoever it was, no matter how dear she held them, would surely understand her reasons for skinning them alive.


	7. Moonbeams of Infatuation

**You know what? Writing Neal is actually quite fun. I can be as sarcastic as I want, and come out with the most hopelessly ridiculous romantic statements that make me gag (you'll see what I mean), and call it character. Having said that, I don't think it's going to be a common occurrence! Anyway, just because I'm stressed, and I need to get something out and Concealed is in no fit state for it. (Therefore, I make no promises on how good it'll be!)**

**As always, I don't own the characters. I just like to take them out to play. They belong to Tamora Pierce (apart from the ropey Romeo and Juliet reference - if you've read it, it'll probably smack you in the face with the obviousness of it, but never mind!).**

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Moonbeams of Infatuation **

Yuki called them fads.

It wasn't that he didn't love his Yamani Rose, his Island Flower, his Glowing Kimono of Radiance. He did. He really, truly did.

It was just that sometimes, he still got ridiculous feelings for _other women_. He'd tried to hide it at first, tried to pretend that the reason he was wondering around with his head in the clouds, dreamily sighing and muttering snatches of poetry under his breath was his wife. He'd tried to attribute his sudden dislike of the men who danced with the woman he was enraptured with that week to some small slight or other, some comment about Kel, or their treatment of the bumpkins in the war. He'd tried, he really did.

It was Kel who had spotted it first, when she'd caught him staring avidly at a table full of women at which Yuki was not sitting.

She'd stomped on his foot (somewhat painfully) and muttered that her memory better of failed her, because she could have sworn she recognised the moony look on his face.

And Neal had assured her that it had, and that he had been dreaming of his Petal, his Orchid, his Spun Sugar Swan of Delight, and Kel had promptly told him to shut up.

She'd watched him after that though, and despite the fact that he'd tried so very hard to distract her (in the form of Tobe, Dom, Lord Raoul and whoever else he could rope into discussion with her), and despite the fact that he'd tried even harder to hide the fact that he was staring at Caroline of Green Ridge and the way that the candlelight dappled her snow white skin, Kel, being as damned perceptive as she was, had promptly noticed.

It hadn't taken Yuki long to notice either, not when Kel had refused to speak for him for more than a week. And when she sat him down and forced him to explain, and he'd watched her eyes above her spread fan, he prayed to Mithros, the Goddess, to anyone who would listen, that she'd forgive him.

And (somewhat miraculously) she had.

She'd told him that she'd been warned long before about his periods of infatuation, the times when he'd spend a week obsessing about one woman or another, and then forgetting promptly about her soon after. She'd told him that she'd found out when she'd asked Kel years ago, why, for no rational reason, Neal seemed to despise Master Salmalín, and Kel had told him that in their first year he'd spent some time enamoured with Daine Sarrasri. It seemed that all that remained of his numerous flights of fancy was an inexplicable dislike of their male companions and recycled verses of poetry.

Neal wondered what it was, exactly, that he'd do without his wife. She told him that small, harmless crushes were one thing, and precisely where he'd find her _shukusen_ if she discovered they were anything but.

And then she'd blessed him with one of her smiles that made him feel as if the sun shone directly on him.

And Neal had promptly come out with what he would have no doubt that Kel, Merric and Roald would easily term one of his most foolish statements yet: "Be assured, my love, that whatever I may feel for them is merely as tempestuous and fleeting as the moon, whilst you, Yukimi, my love for you is as constant as the sun."


	8. Set Adrift

**I chose the wrong characters to get the result out of this that I'd been hoping for, but I'm glad that I picked these two now. Having said that, the only SotL book I've read recently is A:TFA, and WWRLAM is the book I'm most unfamiliar with, so heaven knows why I did! (Apart from where Alanna finally gets together with George. Know that bit practically off by heart. ;) ) Anyway, if there are any glaring mistakes in this, then please forgive me for them!**

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Set Adrift**

Alanna has to wonder if she's settling.

It sounds stupid even to say it; how can one possibly _settle_ for the future King of Tortall? She knows many a court lady who would scratch her eyes out with their ruby-stained claws to get into the situation she is with Jon.

But still, as she sits in her Bazhir tent, watching the Prince sleep peacefully on their shared bedroll, she wonders. Her Jon has changed, become a man who seems more conceited and proud than she can remember him being. It's strange to think of the Heir Apparent of a country as being arrogant - surely Jon is one of the most important people in the country, after all. That doesn't change the fact, however, that she thinks he is.

She never used to.

The only time she is able to recognise _her_ Jon is now, when he's asleep, when dark hair falls across closed eyelids, when he looks more like an innocent child than the sophisticated, worldly man she knows he has become.

She is glad to see him, has never been happier to see anyone else in her life, perhaps, but the differences in him have left her feeling disorientated and confused. Maybe it was naïve for her to have hoped that neither of them had changed before their desert meeting, but genuinely, the differences that have appeared in between them – which one has changed, she can't be sure – have surprised her.

She almost feels misled: this is not who she thought it was, not the man who came riding in on his horse. There is a difference in his eyes, in his attitude.

Maybe he's just grown too big for his breeches; maybe she has been away too long and no one else has cut him down to size adequately enough in her absence. Still, though, she'd have thought that between George, Raoul and Gary, they'd have managed.

Alanna sighs. She doesn't like feeling like this when she's looking upon the man that she loves. Knowing that there's something not quite right between her and the person she has set her heart on being with – the person who has proposed to her and offered to make her his queen.

She looks away, through the flaps of the tent. Out there is an almost-family, a group of people who have adopted her into their tribe with barely a question or word of discontent, a scar on her arm proof of their eternal acceptance. In here – with the Prince of the country that has always been her home, who has always liked her for who she was (although maybe not, she admits at the pressing of the niggling voice in her mind, who she is), has helped her in her battle for acceptance, and who has been her comrade for eight long years – in here, she feels bewildered and unsure of herself.

Unsure of who she is, and how that corresponds to who it is that Jonathan wants her to be.

She knows that if she walks out there, into the sun and the heat, she'll feel safe and accepted and allowed to be herself. In here though, the blue flash of his eyes give her a sharp reminder of the court politics she has fled in order to avoid, the rich clothes a token of his station, a demonstration of what she will need to become in order to make it hers too.

Although maybe not consciously, not willing to admit it to herself yet, Alanna knows now what her answer must be.

And in a tent in the middle of this sea of sand, Sir Alanna of Trebond feels, for the first time in her life, lost.


End file.
